


All the Stories (Begin With You and Me)

by doctorbuffypotterlock79



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian AU, Medication, Mentioned panic attack, Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23143030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorbuffypotterlock79/pseuds/doctorbuffypotterlock79
Summary: Brooke is nervous about taking anxiety meds for the first time, and Vanessa comforts her.
Relationships: Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	All the Stories (Begin With You and Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writworm42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writworm42/gifts).



> This is a little hurt/comfort gift for Writ, because they are the absolute best and I just adore them. It also ended up a little therapeutic for me, and I hope you enjoy! Please leave feedback if you'd like! This does focus on anxiety quite a bit, so please be cautious. 
> 
> Title from Message in the Wind from Carole and Tuesday (Thanks Writ for introducing me to that song!)

“It shouldn’t be a big deal, right?” Brooke laughs nervously. “It’s just a little pill.” 

Vanessa rests a hand on Brooke’s back. “It’s okay if it is,” she says softly. 

Vanessa is torn, because she doesn’t want to make this a big deal, doesn’t want to make Brooke any more self-conscious than she is. She wants taking medication to just be part of Brooke’s morning routine, as normal as packing their lunches. But on the other hand, she’s so proud of Brooke for getting help, for making this change, and Brooke deserves to be praised.

Vanessa decided waffles for breakfast were a good halfway-point, not too extravagant but enough to make the day a little special. She made enough noise to wake the city pulling their waffle maker out of the cupboard, pots and pans tumbling out in an avalanche that ruined the surprise when Brooke came running to see if she was okay. They made them together, Brooke stirring batter that Vanessa let sizzle on the iron, and the golden stack sits next to the bottle of pure Canadian maple syrup—because Brooke wouldn’t use anything else—and the Nutella Vanessa slathers on hers. Their coffee mugs--red with pink hearts for Vanessa and black with white cats for Brooke--steam on the table, lying in wait for their first glorious sips. 

She knows this is a big step for Brooke, one that’s taken months, even years. Vanessa has known Brooke’s anxiety as long as she’s known Brooke. She’s reassured Brooke that people in the mall weren’t laughing at her, watched as she stuttered her way through ordering food, sweaty hands holding the menu in a death grip. She’s held Brooke’s hands to stop her from chewing her nails off in a fit of restlessness. She’s talked Brooke down from a panic attack, sitting on the bathroom floor and coaching Brooke to breathe with a light hand on her chest. She was there, even when it broke her heart to see Brooke hurting so much. 

When Brooke broke down crying after an anxious spiral one night, cuticles raw and bleeding, whole body trembling even after Vanessa wrapped her in a blanket, Vanessa encouraged her to get help. It took a month of coaxing before Brooke finally called, leading to consultations and paperwork and appointments and the tiny orange bottle looming in front of them on the counter. 

“I just...it feels weird to need meds,” Brooke says. Her shoulders slump and Vanessa’s heart aches for her. 

Asking for help doesn’t come naturally to Brooke, she knows that. Brooke is a fierce perfectionist, a trait only deepened by her dance training. She’s used to pushing her feelings down, straightening her posture, and holding her head high to cover up the anxiety twisting in her stomach, the worries racing through her mind.

Waffles and comforting words can’t magically fix things, but Vanessa’s going to do her best, and rubs slow, soothing circles on Brooke’s back. “It’s okay to need meds. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. If you had high blood pressure or somethin’ and needed medicine, would you be ashamed?” 

Brooke’s cheeks flush pink. “No.”

“Right,” Vanessa agrees. “It’s just medicine to help your brain out. That’s all.” 

Brooke nods, picking up the pill. It’s almost in her mouth when she stops. 

“What—what if they don’t work?” She asks quietly, eyes wide with a fear Vanessa wishes she could take away. She knows Brooke’s brain is already calling her a failure over the possibility that they won’t work, like it’s her fault. 

“They might not,” Vanessa says truthfully, recalling the paperwork she and Brooke reviewed together. “But it’s not your fault if they don’t. The papers said certain meds don’t work for certain people, or maybe you’ll need a different dosage. But Dr. Cain will help with that, okay?”

“What if they...change me?” 

“Well, they will a little bit,” Vanessa says. Honesty is what Brooke needs right now, the best way to calm her fears. “They’re gonna quiet down the things that make you anxious so you can feel better. But you’re still Brooke, right? You’re still caring and patient and smart and think you're tough when you really just a big softie. You can still eat half a pizza in one sitting. You can still dance and watch cheesy movies with me.” Vanessa smiles, heart lifting as Brooke returns it. “You’re still Brooke. And I still love you.” 

Brooke squeezes her hand and Vanessa squeezes back. She holds on tight as Brooke washes down her pill with a sip of water. 

“Can we have waffles now?” Brooke asks sheepishly.

“Of course we can.” 

—-

All day at work, Brooke tries to decide if she feels different. She knows the meds don’t work that fast, but she can’t stop staring at herself in the dance studio mirror and wondering if anything has changed.

Same blonde hair that she’ll release from its bun and let Vanessa run her fingers through tonight. Same green eyes that Vanessa says remind her of spring leaves. Same legs that Vanessa traces her fingers up, marvelling at how long they are. 

The meds shouldn’t change much on the outside, but what about the inside? Will she know the meds are working? Will her thoughts feel different? Is she still Brooke without that voice in her head telling her to find every last typo in her emails so she doesn’t look unprofessional? Is she still Brooke without rehearsing her order 10 times so she doesn’t mess up and sound stupid? 

The fact that she’ll have to keep taking medication is strange. Vanessa got her a sparkly black pill holder with a slot for each day, something Brooke would glance over in the section of the store loaded with fuzzy puff-ball keychains and holiday napkins on clearance and old planners with vaguely inspirational quotes--random stuff that was fun to look at, but that she never thought she’d actually need. She can’t quite shake the voices in her head--whether they’re her own, her parents’, or her old dance instructor’s, she can’t tell--saying that she’s inferior for needing them. 

_You don’t need help. You're overreacting. There’s nothing wrong with you._

_Stop crying and get your homework done._

_No excuses. Focus._

She takes a deep breath like she learned in therapy. There’s another voice breaking through, stronger than the others, and it sounds like Vanessa’s. 

_There’s no shame in asking for help._

Brooke has never _had_ to ask for help. She’s always been the perfect daughter, bringing home straight-A report cards and landing solos in dance recitals, a perfect image neglecting the stress that went into creating it, the sleepless nights studying and practicing routines. She could write an essay with shaky hands and tear-blurred eyes at 2am and still get an A. She didn’t need help. She could chew her lip until it bled while working on the studio’s finances and have it all come out fine. Her anxiety isn’t a problem if she still comes out on top. She didn’t need help. That’s just how she is. 

Or how she _was_ , because even if they take weeks to fully work, the meds are supposed to help with that. It wasn’t until she went to therapy that she saw the things she thought make her succeed just make her miserable. She didn’t need to spend her entire lunch hour deliberating over a three-line email, her stomach growling all day after her leftover stir-fry went untouched. She didn’t need to stay up past midnight quadruple-checking studio plans she finished hours before when she could be sleeping with Vanessa. 

It’s the way she is, but maybe it didn’t have to be that way anymore. 

People have given it many names since she was a kid, in hushed voices like it was some scandalous secret no one was supposed to mention. Brooke was just a worrier. A perfectionist. Detail-oriented. Type A. High-strung. Fussy. It wasn’t until she was sitting in her office that Dr. Cain told her its name: anxiety. 

It was anxiety that whispered in her ear and told her she wasn’t good enough. Anxiety that told her a booming laugh from fifty feet away was aimed at her, that she had done something stupid. It was anxiety that told her she didn’t need help, that she didn’t deserve it when people needed it more, that she needed the anxiety to function. But Dr. Cain said none of that is true. She deserves help, and she doesn’t need anxiety to function. 

Brooke hasn’t told Vanessa, but she’s scared. All those things--the worrying, the perfecting, the _what if_ -ing--have been part of her as long as she remembers, from when she stayed up way too late as a child worrying about bad things happening at school. She doesn’t _want_ to keep those parts, especially after Dr. Cain showed her how harmful they are, but she’s had them for so long that she’s afraid to lose them. She honestly doesn’t know who she is without the worrying, without the fretting, without the need to be perfect. 

_You’re still Brooke_ , Vanessa said. 

Vanessa is right. She _is_ still Brooke. She’s still going to let the dog and cats cuddle with her on the couch when they can hardly fit. She’ll still going to make popcorn and let Vanessa choose on movie nights just to see her smile before they trade salty-buttery kisses. She’s still going to work in the studio, and dip French fries (maybe or maybe not stolen from Vanessa’s plate) into her vanilla milkshake, and fall asleep with her wife in her arms. She’s still Brooke, who loves Vanessa with all her heart. 

And nothing will ever change that.

\---

The smell of chicken with lemon and garlic fills the kitchen, Vanessa tending to the stove in her pajamas ( _‘Who says I can’t put my pj’s on right after work? It ain’t against the law’_ ).

Brooke knows that no matter what happens, whether the meds work on the first try or need adjusting, if she has any side effects or not, Vanessa will be there, and that’s enough. 

“You have a good day?” Vanessa asks. 

Brooke answers her with a kiss. “You were right.” 

“Ain't I always?” Vanessa smiles. “But about what?” 

“I’m still Brooke. And I still love you.”


End file.
